


The Open Road

by fairlightscales



Series: 33 and 1/3 [19]
Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: 1960s, 1970s, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Hippies, Best Friends, F/M, Hansel and Gretel Elements, Hippies, Jack and Jill, Other characters from Poldark will be added, Romance, Ross and Dem, Street Rats, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27386656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairlightscales/pseuds/fairlightscales
Summary: Because The Night (Or, Two Homeless Buskers)Other tales from the Hansel and Gretel UniverseAll eras, France, Italy and England
Relationships: Demelza Carne/Ross Poldark
Series: 33 and 1/3 [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1420387
Comments: 49
Kudos: 21





	1. Little April Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To fetch a pail of water

A fine mist drifted in, across the valley, carried on the wind. Ross tacked a sheet over the open side of the folly, which helped to bar the moisture's approach. The cat returned, slipping in by the corner of the wall. She meowed her hello and Dem leaned out of the daybed at a precarious angle, nearly upside down to reach out and scritch her head, something the cat seemed to enjoy. "Hello! Did you find a nice mouse?" The cat meowed again, scrutinized Dem's face, pawing at the loose curls of her hair on the floor, as if debating whether to climb up Dem's hair like the prince in Rapunzel, then turned away to walk further into the room and leaped to sit on the second lowest shelf. Ross imagined the cat had actually answered Dem because Demelza had an uncanny ability to communicate with just about anyone. Her torso stretched back in a finely wrought network of ribs, her navel yawning as she remained over the side of the bed watching the cat. He ran his finger from her navel to lower and she gave a yip of surprise and shivered from the tickliness of it as she pulled herself back up. "That tickled!" complained Dem. Ross grinned. "I couldn't resist." "Humph! I might have fallen off," she said snuggling next to his side. "I'd grab your legs and hold you..." whispered Ross, lips warm at the place where her neck and shoulder met. Dem giggled. "We'd be stuck! Maybe we'd both fall off then." Ross nestled his head near hers. "It's not far to fall. We could just lay there," suggested Ross. Dem put the tapestry back over them. "It's warmer here..." Ross snuggled closer in agreement. The grey day was chilly as April waned. Warm spring days had been plentiful up here when it was sunny but the overcast day made for cooler weather. The sharp, animal smell of not having washed in the river for three days, the overcast days too chilly to bear the river water, was like a guilty secret. Ross and Dem, rather than finding the scent unpleasant relished the secret of knowing that they were wallowing in each other's musk like wild beasts. A unkempt decadence between them. The heat of their bodies, the smell of sex and the oils of their hair assembled themselves into a sort of perfume. The Poldarks had known true squalor on the street at times. When they first had cause to live on the street they had passed beyond giving offense or noticable whiffiness. Ross and Demelza had been truly filthy and lice ridden. They knew what it was to be so dirty that cafe proprietors and shop keepers denied them entry. This was different. Subtle and a naughty sort of enjoyment in their body's own scent. They were basking in each other's pheromones, the warmth of each other so near and turning the daybed into a nest or a den. Marking each other and the place where they lay in a signature scent they could recognize as their mate's. They drowsed. The chill air made the sheet at the open side of the house rise and fall at times. A sheen of mist entered then. It did not penetrate as far as the daybed but moisture and the wet smell of the forest, the moist scent from wet rock and the surroundings of the canyon blew in and they smelled nature around them in the April rain.

But as relaxing and pleasant as this laziness was nature can also call. Ross rolled away to lay on his back, rested his head over his arm even as he had the other one still around Dem. "I must away, I need to go..." he sighed. Dem nodded, curled on her side to lay near him a shade longer. "Me too. We should probably get water too..." Ross nodded. They rose to leave and took a bucket each at the mouth of the folly. They did not dress. Ross pushed the sheet aside to let Dem exit first. A lift of her eyebrow rather than speech. A gesture to the river's direction, a movement of Demelza's wrist that was barely perceptible. Ross nodded.

'Leave the buckets by the river and come back to gather water...?'

'Yes, we'll take care of things nearer to the river and then bring the water back.'

That Ross and Dem understood the exchange in such brief, silent communication was a testament to the bond they had developed after Ross, living on the street as a busker and bound for France as a stowaway, broke Dem out of a Magdalene Laundry and they began their life on the road. Ross and Demelza had been at each other's side for years. They learned a potent form of silent communication as well as using key words in many different languages along with pantomime to talk to others in the shadows of the straight world. Even now Ross and Dem did not reside in the "straight world", the workaday, ordinary life of the society they skulked around the edges of. The townspeople here saw them for what they were, vagrants, and looked to Ross and Dem with suspicion. Too young, long hairs, foreign and no obvious employment. The townspeople had cause to be wary, vagrants could be troublesome. Being a vagabond was disreputable but there was knowledge to be had in the vagabond life; rules, rituals and skills that assist in the world on the street. The Poldarks came to learn these lessons well and never truly stopped using them even when they later resumed living a "normal" life. That they could decide things like the direction they should go, agreeing to leave the buckets at the river's edge and where to relieve themselves without speaking was second nature. In later years these effortless exchanges between them amused The Paynters and their children able to see, at first hand and in close quarters, Ross and Dem communicate this way in a natural, unaffected manner. They grew up on the streets and it marked them, never left them and gave them both an uncanny grace and wisdom together that was strange and wonderful to witness.

Ross followed Dem out and they strode naked down the hill in fine clouds of mist in which droplets of water floated on the air rather than fell. The rich green of the grass was made silvered by small drops clinging to the blades and catching the light. Their footsteps remained dark behind them as the warmth of their feet pressed the grass of this dew. The small birds found shelter this day. Only the larger ravens and hawks wheeled through the sky on this wet day. Dem watched Ross walk with the bucket at his side, his hair moist enough to clump in loose ringlets by itself in a way that some girls despaired over getting their hair to behave by styling it intentionally. Dem admired his legs, the hair of his body, his easy gait and his beauty. Ross was beautiful and she watched him as he made his way down the hill. He slid a little, bobbled to keep his balance on the wet grass and laughed to himself, goodnaturedly. He turned, much like a tightrope walker, balancing the bucket, keeping himself upright and turned to smile at Dem, amused that he kept his balance.

Ross slid on the grass and giggled over it. He didn't fall and turned to Dem to smile his triumph as she must have seen. Far enough down the hill towards the meadow that she was framed by the green grass. She placed the bucket handle further up her arm and applauded with a merry grin. Her eyes shone with a reflection of the grass around her, more green than blue. Her red hair was vibrant, at her groin, on her head. It was growing out, longer than she kept it ordinarily. She was ever herself but the lengthening of her hair was bringing a more obvious femininity to her features. He watched her clapping, gazed at her pretty breasts and shapely legs, the look of amusement over Ross keeping his balance, the dark marks of their footsteps in a arcing trail behind her on the grass. Dem was a pretty girl. She dressed as a boy on the street. It took their landlady, Madame Albaret, two days to realize Dem was a girl. Sometimes people see what is easiest to see. A kid dressed like a boy is most likely a boy. That was to Dem's advantage. For Ross, even in their life on the street when needs meant he call her "Tom", he always saw the girl at his side, a pretty girl... She caught him up and they continued to the river. They were slender and stalky kids. Tall and long limbed. They had not suffered in growing as street rats. Even surviving lean times and sparse meals on the street they managed the luck of attaining a good height and being well grown children. The good fortune of steady, ample meals in the growers compound, in their winter's lodgings with Brose and their inherent sense of self preservation on the street helped them. Some street rats drank coffee and cheap wine to keep them going. Ross and Dem, so used to grown ups around them who insisted they drink milk at meals kept that habit on their own. Cocoa over coffee, milk over spirits, enough busking takings to meet a plate of sausage or an omelet or a croque madame; a toasted sandwich of ham, cheese and a fried egg with frites, fried potatoes, on the side in the cafes now and again, and there were always pastries to keep them going. They were so often seen eating treats from the patisseries the other street kids nicknamed Ross and Dem "Palmier" after the puff pastry who's two sides curled inward. Always together, and maintaining an innocence about them with their friendly talk, cheerful music and enjoyment of pastries and milk. Together they walked to the river. They left the buckets at the river's edge and went to relieve themselves in the woods, disappearing into the trees Dem to the left, Ross to the right. They met up again at the river's edge. "Do we dare?" laughed Ross. The water was most likely cold but they had been three days without a wash. Dem scrunched her eyes shut. Being thin meant feeling that cold water that much more. "If we dip in and out quick!" They smiled agreement. They both had fine droplets resting in their hair from the mist itself. They glittered like diamonds. They grinned, daring the other to go first. Dem extended her hand and Ross held it. "One, two, three!" yelled Dem and they ran forward, hand in hand, and plunged in. The sudden chill made them shriek and start laughing. Dem disappeared under the water and Ross let go her hand and followed suit. A fast scrubing, Dem stood up once more, leaned forward to scratch water into her scalp and wash up her hair. Ross did the same and they climbed back out to get the buckets. They filled the buckets and made their way back up the hill, hair streaming wet and the sensation of warmth now that they left the cold river water, eager to return indoors for it was not warmth enough to keep from shivering. Up the hill, slow enough to avoid water sloshing over the buckets' side, shivering as they made their way back. Straining not to slip and fall with the extra weight of the heavy buckets on the wet ground. "Oh!" Dem lost her footing and lost a fair bit of her buckets worth of water trying to right herself. Ross' concerned comment, "Are you alright?", was lost in a veil of Demelza's giggles and he stood admiring his wife, spindly but still upright, a wave of water left her bucket in an arch over the ground in a loud splash and she laughed. "Hahahahahaha! I'll get some more!" Dem went back to try again. He watched her. Watched her using the same careful lift they learned at the growers compound, turning slowly and coming towards him, head down watching her step and the bucket. She was as pretty as a nymph in one of the Symbolism paintings in some of Brose's art books. A gorgeous waterbearer that happened to be his best friend, companion and wife and smiled up at him suddenly. She tilted her chin up look at him and he could _feel_ that she had the same thought. She looked at him lovingly and he could tell she had the same satisfaction in knowing Ross to be her best friend, companion and husband. Two wet, skinny kids who turned to return to the strange little house on the hill.

They entered at the edge of sheet tacked over the opening. They were still damp but enough time had elapsed to give their towel less work to do. Ross and Dem set the buckets down on the floor by the stove. They took turns drying off and Ross stoked the iron stove. They bought a newspaper in town for the sole purpose of starting fires going. He placed a crumple of it at the wood and lay a match there. As he knelt by the stove Dem came behind him and rubbed his hair once more with the towel. He smiled up at her in gratitude. "Tea?" asked Ross. She kissed his forehead. "Yes please!" said Dem. Ross nodded and closed up the stove. "We'll give it some time to heat up..." He stood. Ross turned to Dem and crinkled his eyes, pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes and teased, "In the meantime, you are charged with the task of warming our bed, my good woman!" Dem laughed. "Oh?" asked Dem. Ross nodded. They climbed into the daybed and settled under the tapestry, burrowed down under it and arranged themselves in a curled up, intricate tangle of limbs and hair, to kiss deeply and await the stove's readiness to provide tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little April Shower, Walt Disney Chorus
> 
> Drip, drip, drop  
> Little April shower  
> Beating a tune  
> As you fall all around
> 
> Drip, drip, drop  
> Little April shower  
> What can compare  
> To your beautiful sound  
> Beautiful sound  
> Beautiful sound  
> Drip, drop, drip, drop
> 
> Drip, drip, drop  
> When the sky is cloudy  
> Your pretty music  
> Will brighten the day
> 
> Drip, drip, drop  
> When the sky is cloudy  
> You come along with a song right away  
> Come with your beautiful music
> 
> Drip, drip drop  
> Little April shower  
> Beating a tune  
> As you fall all around  
> Drip, drip drop  
> Little April shower  
> What can compare with your beautiful sound
> 
> Drip, drip drop  
> When the sky is cloudy  
> You come along, come along with your pretty little song  
> Drip, drip drop  
> When the sky is cloudy  
> You come along, come along with your pretty little song
> 
> Gay little roundalay  
> Song of the rainy day  
> How I love to hear your patter  
> Pretty little pitter-patter  
> Helter-skelter when you pelter  
> Troubles always seem to scatter
> 
> Drip, drip drop  
> Little April shower  
> Beating a tune  
> As you fall all around  
> Drip, drip drop  
> Little April shower  
> What can compare with your beautiful sound


	2. Do You Love Me? (Now That I Can Dance)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Step by step

Je vais vous montrer les bijoux.

Pouvez-vous me les donner?

Celui-ci va bien.

Je vais vous montrer quelques  
afin que vous puissiez faire un choix.

Très gentil, tu ne trouves pas?  
Je vais prendre celui-là aussi.

Et c'est le fameux collier  
avec les diamants.

Je vais prendre ça aussi.

Mettez-les dans un écrin  
pour Lord Shelton.

The cinema was, in all honesty, half full of sleeping rats. A scent of wet clothes, wet shoes, lingered in the air. Ross watched Fantômas slouched and slunk in his seat with one leg up one the back of the empty seat in front of him and one around his guitar case at the floor, the neck of the guitar case tilted at his lap and the dim room flashing with the light of screened motion picture in front of him. Dem was asleep to his right, laying her head at his shoulder. His arm was starting to fall asleep and get that pins and needles feeling so he wiggled his right hand gently at his knee to combat it. It was a comedy, action picture and an easy plot to follow for all it was in French. Ross stared on, half interested, mostly guarding Dem and the guitar. Ross had his sleep earlier in a warehouse with Dem keeping watch. They might try that pitch again tomorrow. It was nominally guarded but the man had a weakness for drink, not so serious at his post. Tonight Crazy Ace; a kid who had seen Ross and Dem around the ordinary haunts of the Left Bank, seen them busking as well as flitting about the cafes, watched them earn their place and become part of the daytime street scene, had come to like both of them, invited them to join the rats for nighttime fun. He told Palmier they should come with them and check out L' Escale, a nightspot where African immigrants hung out and dancing went on until the wee, small hours of the morning. The place had a late night license that allowed them to be open until four in the morning. This was good because the kids had a place to stay in on the weekend nights and the dancing was fun. These places were working men's boîtes featuring drinks and dancing but the grown ups didn't turn the street rats away. They were laid back and wanted the place packed as it made for a better atmosphere. The young kids felt safety in numbers as a gang together but also safe among the grown ups in this scene. Some "homegrown", French working class bars featured dancing but drinking prevailed as the main occupation. Arguments, fights and assaults were common in those places and kids were leery of them. In these late night clubs; L' Escale, Rose Rouge, Bal Négre, Tabou, so often sneered at and avoided by French born locals who did not want to mix with the immigrants, dance was the heart of the matter and soft drinks and water were just as sought after as liquor to quench the thirst that the overheated dance floor brought on for no one wanted to be too drunk to dance and one sweated and moved enough to need to drink often. They danced hour after hour and liked a good time. There were no violent scenes among the Africans and they didn't mind the ragged kids joining in their fun, didn't seek to exploit them or kick them out. They would serve kids alcohol with a nod and a wink if they bought at the bar but kept them to punch more often than not. The fruit punch was mixed on the premises, a concoction of fruit juice and liquor that was never the same color twice even in the same night and had a kick like a mule so both parties were content. The establishment cut the youngsters drinks with juice and those drinks still smacked one across the face with the sweet taste of fruit punctured with rum or cognac or lord alone knows what. The street rats came to learn that you could not get through a night's dancing on hard drink alone and soon kept the same balanced habits of the grown ups -enough liquor to be merry, enough water and soft drinks so as not to faint, from the exertions, from the close heat of so many dancers dancing nearly non-stop. There were many dance clubs to choose from and the independent kids,(the preferred term, not to say "homeless" or "vagrant"), made a point of frequenting them all, as part of the scene as the 'true' denizens, immigrants from Senegal, Nigeria, Cameroon, Algeria, and other far flung places where the men tried their luck with employment much as Ross and Dem had done coming from England but with the fluent French of their colonial ties to France under their belt as well. Ross looked on, watching the images on the screen as the light and shadow from the film flashed over him in the dark room, killing time, letting Dem get her sleep. Rainy days were more difficult on the street but theater owners did not care if you slept in your seat during afternoon showings so long as snoring wasn't egregious and you paid for your ticket. On rainy days enterprising kids sometimes let other friends sneak in by a back entrance but they were careful not to do it in fair weather. They did not want to kill the golden goose by doing it too often and getting caught. On rainy days the guards played cards with little attention to their job and the projectionist didn't give a damn what went on after the lights went down. The usher flashed his torch in Ross' direction. He saw a red headed boy passed out asleep next to his dark haired friend who was watching the movie. The light bobbed away. Ross smirked. He and Dem were 'good' patrons. They would wait out the movie and go back to leave the guitar at Madame Albaret's building, help Jinny tidy up on alternate floors of the building and then use their busking takings to buy a meal, then hang out among the other street kids in the cafe until the clubs opened up. They had gotten two hours of busking in before the sky opened up and started to pour with rain. Enough takings to get two cinema tickets to escape the weather and share a plate of something at a cafe tonight. Dem had a trick of blinking her eyes in a winsome manner that often netted extra fried potatoes from indulgent wait staff. They shared and shared alike. Dem and Ross pooled their money but always considered it split as an even take. His. Hers. Ross knew Dem singing doubled and sometimes near tripled the takings compared to the early days when he busked alone, never grudging Dem's share. She was wonderful. The movie continued. Dem sighed and snugged a little more at Ross' side. He lay his head nearer to hers with a satisfied smile and kept watch over the movie, the guitar and his pal.

Ross was propped up in the corner of the booth, sleeping. Extra kip never hurt and they paid for their meal. The facing side of the table had wrought iron chairs with spindly legs and some kids dragged chairs from the adjoing table to converse with the gang. Occasionally one of their friends would kick Ross' leg under the table to wake him up enough to satisfy the cafe owner. The owner did have the right to eject sleeping customers. Within a crowd of friends, one or two sleepers were often overlooked but the kids never trusted it to hold, always poked their companions awake if only briefly if the owner looked their way. As much as a nuisance the street kids could be, taking forever to turn tables, sometimes taking over a whole corner, it was insured repeat business. The balancing act of having street rats and vagrants rely on being able to come back but not so many at a time to gain the reputation as a sort of flophouse full of shady ne'er do wells was a delicate dance. Luckily many students and intellectuals considered the vagrant kids "authentic local color" and smoothed the cafe owners' frayed nerves over the rats. The students and artistic types were repeat customers too and good spenders. The worst of all worlds would be to have the street rats shun your cafe for tourists would then multiply and the student/philosopher crowd would turn their noses up and go away too, looking for a "authentic cafe" not wanting to be seen in a square tourist trap. Dem was drawing. Ross and Dem shared the same black bound sketchbook. Even though it was filled with excellent drawings and very important to both of them as a possession, Ross and Dem were extremely casual with it. It was often passed about and filled with the doodles and writings drawn and scribbled by their friends and they often left it to be looked after by bar keeps and counter attendants when dancing became their favored weekend pastime, collecting it back afterwards. This day they were new to the idea of dancing in the clubs and willing to see what it was about. Ross caught a bit more sleep in the corner where the banquet and the wall met. Dem drew him next to the mirrored wall by his head and among the odds and ends, photos and paintings, hung on the wall at his back. She drew the reflection of Ross' hair, his sleeping form near other kids chattering at a table littered with their café cremès, glasses of water and plates of food. Dem smiled as Ross perked back up awake in a sudden jerk of his body, eyes open wide and then settling back to normal size. He yawned. Ross, somewhat angelic looking because he woke, somewhat grouchy looking over being kicked on his shin, charmed the others at the table. A girl near tittered, "Ah! What a shame Palmier don't have his guitar! He could play "Rock a Bye Bebé!" Dem grinned as the table burst into laughter. Ross' smile was bashful. Not only because he had been kicked awake but because he liked having a street name. The kids on the street they came to know in Paris rarely went by their given names and he and Dem were named together. They answered to "Palmier" singly and as a pair and Ross felt very proud and happy over this. He and Dem were a team. Ross could not speak fluent French but "Palmier", "guitare" and "Rock a Bye Baby" were enough of a handhold for Ross to understand her meaning and answer her. "Ha, ha!" said Ross drily, arms crossed, jutting his chin a bit. "Hanging on to my guitar tonight would keep me from cutting a rug!" The girl frowned. "Quai?" Through a bit of give and take the English idiom "to cut a rug" was explained in French as "dancing". The mixture of various languages, slang, true French and pantomime among the rats of the left bank was a wonder to behold. The talk never ended, there was fun and jokes to be enjoyed even as many at the table had a mother tongue that was different to everyone else's. That Ross and Dem would come to the nightclub amused the others. The others were old hands at dancing in the clubs. Palmier were teased for being "Trop de rosbif", too English to dance well among the other kids who knew the place and the grown up regulars who _really_ knew how to dance. Ross and Dem took it in good grace but resolved to prove the other kids wrong. They could dance as well as anyone, thought Ross and Dem. How much different can this dancehall be.

L' Escale was a no nonsense sort of place. The only concession to ambiance were fishnets draped from different parts of the ceiling. Records and live music, both, set the scene in a large dancehall with a saloon like bar down one wall near the restrooms. Rigid metal chairs, black legs and backs with red vinyl seats sat in a loose crowd at the sides of the room for spectators to watch and dancers to rest. Dem leaned in to ask the barman to watch their sketchbook and Crazy Ace spoke in proper French, behind her, touching her shoulder as if to tell the barman, 'this kid's with me' warning the barman not to lose it. "Merci!" said Demelza, brightly. Her friendliness as genuine with him as anyone. "De rien chérie..." He smiled at her before they nodded his departure, moving on, him making eye contact and greeting someone else across the crowded room and struggling through the people to get there. Ross looked askance, watched him make his way to an older kid across the room. Crazy Ace was not exactly flirting with Dem but his smile as he enjoyed being thanked for his chivalry looked a bit smitten, or at least interested. Ross knew he was near Ross' age but split his his day to day time with the young rats and a fast set of older kids. Crazy Ace hung out on the street with the young rats and was a fun person to be around. He spoke English too and had a quick wit as well as a penchant for organizing good times. He orchestrated huge games of tag or Capture the Flag in the streets of the Left Bank, had a kind word for everyone and a wicked sarcasm that could keep you in stitches. Crazy Ace was a cool, streetwise kid. He also dealt hashish and was a sort of mascot for the older kids that were more risk taking and considered the younger rats, well, younger. They were too grown up to play games in the streets. They had other fish to fry and Crazy Ace was like a disciple to them. He wanted money and wanted to learn from the older kids how to get it. He knew Dem was a girl from the first because Ross noticed Crazy Ace addressed her as male and called her Palmier in the group settings but used female pronouns when he spoke to her directly. Ross did not know quite what to do with what he was feeling. Dem was not his possession or girlfriend. She was as independent as any other rat, her own agent as it were. Ross had no claim on Dem but hadn't considered how he would feel if she made good friends with a different boy. That was her right of course but... "Ross!" Dem blinked in his eyes. He blinked back in surprise. He had sunk in his own head that much. "Come on!" she said grinning. "Stop your dreaming! Come to the floor and dance!" Dem dragged Ross by the hand and he laughed as he followed her. 'Let Sweetness have all the friends in the world,' thought Ross. 'She's still my pal, always...' The rhythms of the music were fast and punctuated with drums and a syncopated dovetail of guitar and horns. The instruments all fell in with the drums. Standing still was impossible. At the very least tap your toe! Bob your head to the beat! Even those drinking even those watching were behaving as if they were hypnotized and moving in time to the music. Ross and Demelza were outclassed, by their friends and certainly by the grown ups. Men out numbered women but they didn't vie to dance with women alone, nor the women wait about for men to partner with. They danced in pairs and groups facing off each other and dancing with each other in a provocative way. They crouched down, nearly to the floor but had their arms raised and moving everywhere. They bent backwards with their heads behind them, smiling nose to nose at others behind their backs, they flipped back up and dancing forehead to forehead with others, legs stationary but their hips and arms moving incessantly then dancing about, legs everywhere! They danced alone and then swung around to face whoever was nearest, a look of serious combat in a fellow grown up, a grin of friendly competition when it was a rat. 'O.K. son! O.K. girly! Let’s see what you can do!' And faced them down giving no quarter. Many of the other kids from the street had moves. Serious. Moves. Ross and Dem were not dancing with the sort of ease and grace as the others. They did try. It was fun to try. Ross and Dem smiled into each others eyes, forehead to forehead in a stiff, clumsy mimic of the others around them that all in the club thought endearing. Two very young kids in jeans, in men's shirts too big for them trying to dance. They were as cute infant foals trying to use their legs for the first time to the dyed in the wool clubbers. They had the will but not the way. "Palmier!" Crazy Ace, knowing that Ross and Dem were too young looking for the barman to look the other way and let them have punch brought them his, holding the cup up over his head like a beacon and dancing his way over to them. Dem waved and Ross swallowed down what he was starting to realize was jealousy watching them share a smile as he moved with confidence among the dancers. "Drink up! You two dance like the rusty Tin Man! I have brought the oil!" Dem laughed and drank deeply, she passed the cup to Ross. She froze a little. Ross didn't look happy. Was he disapproving over her taking the alcohol? Ross realized he was still sulking over Crazy Ace, and shook free of it. He smiled at Dem, took the cup and lifted it towards Crazy Ace to thank him before taking a drought. It was delicious. It was certainly heavily laced with liquor though the taste fruit predominated. Ross scrunched his eyes, opened them wide and went "Whoo!" blinking himself in line after such a strong drink. Crazy Ace slapped Ross on the back with a grin. "That will loosen you up! Come on, drink up!" Ross and Dem finished it down, shared it half and half. Their friends started shrieking and yelling. Palmier were out on the town!

Crazy Ace remained near them on the dance floor. The liquor did its job. Ross and Dem were laughing in a wonderful, tipsy daze of music and movement. They swung their limbs with more ease, they charmed their friends by trying their best to dance like the others, not there yet but improving. Many of the men cheered them on and danced with them in an amusement over the young people having fun and helping their friends become adept. Crazy Ace faced off Ross more often than Dem and Ross began to lose some of his misgivings. The dancing was sensual rather than sexual. The rats faced off each other with the girls and boys giving as good as they got whatever the gender of the other, no holding back. Ross and Crazy Ace danced forehead to forehead swiveled their hips near the other in a scandalous manner but blameless too. The music demanded it. Boys danced boys, boys danced with men, men danced with men, men danced with girls, girls danced with girls and all switched to others in the room in the same way. Ross laughed with Crazy Ace and turned back to Dem who looked at him with sparkling eyes. Eyes that only shined their truest, brightest starlight at her Palmier. Crazy Ace smiled after Palmier in their enthusiastic dancing, their friendship so clear and pure and, in a tactful retreat, stepped some partners away. Stepped back, dancing his way back towards the bar. He sat at the bar with an Orangina watching his friends learning to dance in the dimly lit, undulating mass of dancers. Palmier were grinning at each other, dancing and getting the hang of things. Crazy Ace had no doubt they'd be as good as anyone after a few more party nights in the Paris boîtes. He grinned over his soft drink. He wasn't blind. Palmier were not lovers. You could see they had no intimacies that way. They loved each other though. One could see that just as much. Ross was chafing each time he paid Dem attention. Crazy Ace thought Dem was a knock out, in a few years time she would make men faint in the street, and no mistake. And he liked her. Palmier was a cheeky kid and liked a good time. She had a good sense of humor and a friendly word for everyone. But he knew his place. Ross and Dem were on the street together. They never called each other Palmier, though they answered to it and Ross often called Dem "sweetness". Crazy Ace would be a friend, wanted to be a friend but he also knew his place. Every boy among the Left Bank rats knew Dem was off limits. Palmier was so named because her other half was always near. Ross was her man. She didn't know it yet. Ross probably didn't know it either but a inkling was starting to form in him. Crazy Ace could see it when he brought the drink over. Ross was nervous that he was making a play for her. Ross was sixteen but Palmier were very young and sweet. They were clever on the street, not foolish but they had the open hearts and a lack of hardness, street hardness, that made Crazy Ace want to wrap them up in a duvet. Let them stay young and good forever... A hand on his shoulder. Crazy Ace clasped hands and chatted briskly with the older boy. Work called. One of the older kids knew a new supplier of hashish and Crazy Ace could get in on the ground floor with a generous cut he could keep for himself. He looked out at the dancefloor. He had been that carefree. He had lived for freedom and play and an independent life but he was ready to try his hand in the bigger arena. The kids he hung out with were seventeen, eighteen. They were one foot out of their days as rats. At eighteen you got an adult record. The stakes were high. Crazy Ace was fifteen, dealing hashish for six months now. Learning. Watching. The older kids knew a lot but many were messy. They used the drugs they were selling. They were getting sloppy because they were users as well as dealers. Crazy Ace would be smart. He would make the money young, avoid getting nabbed as an adult. Make a packet young and not taste the merchandise. He wouldn't end up like the kid who was introducing him to the supplier. He would be clever.

Ross and Dem danced until four in the morning fueled on the smiles of their friends and soft drinks. They bid their friends goodbye and Ross took first watch in the warehouse they found recently. Dem slept on a wooden crate and Ross sat next to her. He had fun tonight and Crazy Ace was as friendly to him as Dem. Maybe he was feeling too possessive of Dem. She was as friendly with everyone and Ross might do well to relax a bit. She had a personality that anyone would be drawn to. He felt it when he met her through an iron fence. She was pretty, of course, but it was not that alone. Her sense of fun, her love of art and reading books and ideas, her lovely voice. Ross also had cause to witness her cleverness, her bravery, the spark in her that made her special. Dem was special and knowing she liked being his friend made Ross feel special too. Dem was too full of life to share that sort of power with only one person. Dem made friends with nearly everyone she met. Ross would learn to manage. To accept it. There might come a time when Dem might meet the boy she would come to love and want to marry. The road would not last forever. They might part someday. Ross turned to watch her sleeping, listened for trouble, movement or voices. He heard nothing. They were still safe. He might meet a girl and settle down... Someday... For now he had a pal. Ross had a companion on the road and she was as independent as he was. He would be her friend and she would be his, even when it came time to be grown ups.

Dem woke and turned over with a yawn. "Thanks, Ross..." She crawled off the crate and they switched places. She sat up, blinking herself awake to take second watch. "I liked dancing tonight." said Dem. She looked timid. "You didn't mind me drinking that punch, Ross...?" His eyes opened. He tilted his head to look at her. "I didn't mind, I liked it too! It was delicious!" They stayed quiet. Dem knew Ross had been pensive when she first handed him the drink. Ross knew that she knew he was deep in thought but could not bring himself to explain. To suggest to Dem he was jealous of Crazy Ace would be admitting a sense of ownership over her that wasn't fair and in truth a bit embarrassing. She wouldn't begrudge him a friend, he should be as sensible, thought Ross. They blinked a sort of agreement to end the conversation. The wood of the crate creaked as Ross turned on his side to get comfortable. Dem watched him ready for sleep. Ross was moody sometimes. Perhaps that sour look had nothing to do with her at all, thought Dem. "Night, Dem," said Ross. "Night, Ross." said Dem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do You Love Me?, The Contours 1962
> 
> You broke my heart 'cause I couldn't dance,  
> You didn't even want me around  
> And now I'm back to let you know I can really shake 'em down
> 
> Do you love me? (I can really move)  
> Do you love me? (I'm in the groove)  
> Now do you love me?  
> (Do you love me now that I can dance?)  
> Watch me, now  
> (Work, work) ah, work it out baby  
> (Work, work) well, I'm gonna drive you crazy  
> (Work, work) ah, just a little bit of soul, now?  
> (Work)  
> Now I can mash potatoes (I can mash potatoes)  
> I can do the twist (I can do the twist)  
> Tell me, baby, do you like it like this?  
> Tell me (tell me) tell me
> 
> Do you love me?  
> Do you love me, baby?  
> Now do you love me?  
> (Do you love me now that I can dance?)  
> Watch me, now  
> (Work, work) ah, work it out baby  
> (Work, work) well, I'm gonna drive you crazy  
> (Work, work) you are getting kind of cold, now  
> (Work)  
> (Work, work) with just a little bit of soul, now ?  
> (Work, work) come on, come on now  
> (Work, work) I'm gonna drive you crazy  
> (Work)  
> I can mash potatoes  
> I can do the twist  
> Well now, tell me, baby, do you like it like this?  
> Tell me (tell me) tell me
> 
> Do you love me?  
> Do you love me, baby?  
> Do you love me?  
> Do you love me?  
> Now that I can dance  
> (Work, work) ah, work it out baby  
> (Work, work) well, I'm gonna drive you crazy  
> (Work, work) oh you are getting kind of cold, now  
> (Work)  
> (Work, work) with just a little bit of soul, now  
> (Work, work) now don't you get kinda bold, now?  
> (Work, work) oh, work it out baby
> 
> Rosbif: "roast beef" a derisive slang term for the English.


	3. Hard Knock Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creature comforts

It wasn't so much chores as tidiness. Dem and Ross had their breakfast and made a point of airing the sheets and making up the mattress in the tucked away storage area of Brose's garret studio like a proper bed. They might be rats or even cats but they had a bit of pride in having a proper bed to sleep in and looked after it with dignity. Dem insured exactness with the firm fold and tuck at the bottom edge that was demanded of her at the Home. The girls at the Home were not permitted breakfast until the beds were inspected and all of the sheets and dull grey coverlets were crisp and correct. One did not want to fall afoul of the matrons or risk the displeasure of the other girls who were, to a person, sick to their back teeth of tepid, gloopy, porridge with a wan thin edge of milk pooled where the mass of it met the side of the shallow plate but wanted to eat. Dem had learned to make her bed with precision after a couple of days. Having been made an example of by having to wear a sign that said "Slattern" hung around her neck from a string and bore the disappointed stares of the other hungry girls who stood quietly, made to watch as the matron railed a shrewish explanation over her head telling Demelza where she had erred as she darted to the various portions of the bed that were offensive and fixed them, the sign waggling forward on its string and getting in her way as she strove to obey and flapped about between her arms was not something she cared to repeat. Brose did not demand the bed to be made before they ate. He did demand things of Ross and Dem though. Brose had a way of speaking that was abrupt, one suspected, from English being a third language for him. He said "you should, you must, you will, do this..." Brose spoke in stern sounding directives. But unlike the matrons of the Home his decrees and instructions held niceties rather than toil and reprimand. He would say, "Eet ze! Come eat!" as he offered them no choice in feasting on fresh baked croissants with as much scrumptious jam as they liked, no skimping, vibrant and glossy with berries stewed with sugar on old plates that bloomed with flowers at their rims. Brose gave them hot soup in mugs and hot cocoa in bowls! A turnabout Ross and Dem found fascinating... How odd... Brose would say, "You must have a coat! How you expect to sit out in all weathers with no coat?! I will buy it for you!" telling them in no uncertain terms that they must explore Paris like a treasure box and submit themselves to a fun afternoon being supplied with everything two young boys might require especially if one was a girl. Tagging along beside him in a halo of propriety, not looked at with disdain or mistrust as shifty street kids. Ross and Dem were in the company of a proper grown up. Walking with their new friend like the other kids in the street who had parents and grandparents to purchase to stuff of life on a weekend's errands. Brose would say, "Buy a tarte au citron, they are very good here..." demanding Dem pop into the patisserie like a favored child, entrusted with money, a little bell jingled as the door opened and a lovely scent of pastry and confections wafted forward, to be smiled upon as a good child by the owner instead of eyed with suspicion, nodding through the glass at Brose as if to say, "Oui, monsieur, and what a fine young man..." and even get two sweets as an extra treat from the baker, one for Dem and one "pour ton frère" since he could see Ross next to Brose through the window. He would say, "Kandinsky is a genius! You will like him!" and provide them new ideas, new visions, new joys in old books as if they might be grown ups too. And even that seemed to leave enough room for Ross and Dem to decide whether they _did_ like Kandinsky's work, or this poet, or that painter or not. They often did. Brose sounded stern but he was not a ill tempered person. It was a subtle thing. His face in repose was very serious but he was not grudging with smiles. He often smiled. Sometimes they were a brief twitch at the corners of his mouth. Sometimes they were modest and held a sense of satisfaction. And sometimes they were broad, heralded by a bark of a laugh, sustained in a sort of admiration. His voice was interesting. His English sounded melodic in its Dutch cloak. He often spoke to himself and his cat in Dutch and it was a mysterious sounding language. Ross and Dem learned small phrases when Brose would call them to the table or wish them 'Goedemorgen' but they both liked to listen to him putter about talking to himself or to Mimi, the cat, in Dutch. When they lay in their bed, just coming to the surface, warm in a cocoon of each others closeness, Ross and Dem felt Mimi climb across the blankets, walk over them, a paw stubbing at Dem's hip, poking at Ross' thigh, listened to her plodding footsteps as she left them, leaping the short flight of steps and landing, walking forward to greet her friend. The light of a Paris sky over them, be it blue or grey, growing stronger and glowing from the skylight, the mattress so wonderfully soft. The quiet start to the day they looked forward to and would pause to enjoy before they indulged in their own conversation. He spoke French with confidence and one suspected he held no accent from his Dutch in it*. He was very learned, very different to other grown ups. In the life of their host, art and ideas were as necessary as jam and coats and good pastries from the baker.

Brose was amused at the Ross and Dem taking pains to make the mattress on the floor like a proper bed. As he cleared away the dishes, as he gathered various paints and brushes and organized himself to begin his work, he would glance now and again at their progress. Ross and Dem scurried about on their knees and tucked the sheets around it, smoothing them into place and taking the time to admire their handiwork. They seemed proud to have a modest mattress on a wooden floor to call their own. From where he stood Dem looked quite like a boy too and he had to remind himself he was hosting a girl. They had their breakfast and would disappear into the town to play their music for a chance at a generous passerby's spare change. They always came back by seven without being late. The children did not distract him over much as he worked and when they threatened to were easily placated with books. It had, very quickly, become a good arrangement. Brose left money for them on the cleared table and bade them to eat on those funds, go to one of the cafes and have a proper meal. They would take the money, sometimes Ross, sometimes Dem but they would both say, "Thank you, Brose!" with gratitude and enthusiasm. Ross and Dem were grateful. They could save their busking takings in truth, build up their money. They ate a plate of lunch each each instead of having to share one between them and often had enough left over to have a pastry for afters. Luxury!

"They would fold the paper, so one did not see the other person's drawing. Once they all finished it was unfolded and all the different drawings became one and strange looking because each person drew without knowing what the rest looked like." Ross considered this, this artist's game. He tilted his chin up to try the name as Brose had said. Ross looked to some vista that lay beyond view as he said, "Exquisite cadaver..." Dem leaned forward past Brose with the book in his lap and admired Ross' reverie. He spoke as if it was a marvelous, magical phrase, like Abracadabra, and settled himself around it like a butterfly enjoying a tasty flower. She caught his eye and he grinned. "That sounds more grand than exquisite corpse somehow!" sighed Ross. Brose chuckled. "One finds the French have away of bringing any thing to the apex of _chic_!" Dem turned to him in a bright happiness. "Can we draw an _exquisite cadaver_?!" Brose then looked between them as Ross and Dem kept saying 'exquisite cadaver' working each other into hysterics as they vied to out do each other in dramatic, romantic Dutch tinged French. Brose said, dryly, "You are playing with fire! If you chant that much longer you might summon a witch or a troll with a bad temper!" Dem and Ross laughed harder. Brose looked between them once more. "You laugh but it will be difficult to rid ourselves of a witch! You would have to say exquisite cadaver backwards and hope for the best!" The fact that Brose spoke in a pretense of seriousness made his young friends drunk with laughter. Ross' sides started to ache. "We would say! We would say, rev...! Hahahaha 'rev a dac'! How would you say it Brose?!" Brose knit his brows. It was beyond him. "Wait..." he said and turned to reach for a pencil from a jumble at the short bookcase behind the sofa. He wrote in the margin of the book "revadac etisiuqxe". Dem howled with a fresh bout of laughing, shrieking "Revadac! Etis! Etis!..." Ross and Dem laughed harder. Brose strained to remain circumspect. He squinted at it on the page."It would be revadac etisiu...?" Brose stopped, not only because he could not figure out how to say 'qxe' but Ross' head bonked into his arm seized with more giggles as he tried to apologize. Ross looked up at Brose who's face brimmed with amusement. "Sor...sorry!" Ross watched him nod his assent that the apology was accepted. His eyes crinkled with good humor and Ross could see Brose was having entertainment from this spectacle of silliness. Brose still held firm. He did not laugh but looked upon the page at 'exquisite cadaver' backwards in his same calmness as he mused, "You would probably summon a witch faster saying it that way..." "Ahahahahaha!" Dem stamped her foot on the floor and held her sides in an agony of laughing. Her sides hurt. At length Ross and Dem sat about panting a recovery on the comfy sofa with their friend maintaining an amused silence. "I am almost afraid to draw an exquisite cadaver with you fellows," Brose shared a very warm smile with Dem. "But we shall have to see what we can see..." Mimi, who was wary of the children in their strange fits crept nearer and, satisfied that the worst had passed leapt next to Dem and allowed the human to stroke her fur. Brose stood to retrieve a piece of paper. "We must take turns and leave lines on the next blank part to join the drawings together." Since two would have to wait while one drew, Ross played guitar and Dem was given the first blank part. Brose continued to read. When Dem pronounced her drawing finished Brose took his turn, drawing on his lap, as Dem sat cuddling Mimi and Ross continued playing. Ross was compelled to have his turn seated at the table as Brose warmed soup in a pot on the hot plate. Dem sat by Ross and giggled as he curled his arm around the paper to secret his drawing. "Well! It's meant to be a surprise!" complained Ross. Brose lay plates with small loaves of bread, too big to be a roll, to small to be a proper loaf. But in truth a proper loaf, a demi baguette. It had a sooty, wonderful scent on the bottom from being browned on the bottom of the baker's oven, scattered with a scant handful of grain to keep them from sticking as they baked and a crisp outside. It broke apart into an airy interior of delicious soft bread, a bone white series of caverns and strands, webs and fluff in an airy network that magically became bread, like finding a whole universe in an acorn or locket. Not like ordinary, sliced bread at all. You couldn't use it for a fry up, it would not behave. A demi baguette was its own grammar, its own mode of being and Ross and Demelza liked them very much. The crust stayed chewy even when it was dipped in soup and the bread carried the taste of the soup like a dot on an i or a ribbon on a present. It made soup a feast. Brose set mugs of hot soup on the table. "You eat that up..." Ross looked up from his tented arm. "I'm finished!" Brose smiled. "Turn it face down. You have your soup and we shall see it after. There is marzipan..." They grinned. Brose, in their short acquaintance, had shown a partiality to chocolate covered marzipan as a Friday treat. A shade larger than a chocolate bar, one suspected he wasn't above eating the entire little log of it unobserved in his solitary habits but chose to cut it into three for his petit chats to partake of it with him. It became a happy symbol. Ambrose had a proper home elsewhere but he made a point of spending time with Ross and Dem on the weekend. Saturday and Sunday Brose brought them a slap up meal for their dinner, not just soup. He would buy hot made meals from different shops and pastry too. They would share a good meal and would look at books. Brose would help them if they weren't in English, translate parts they could not read for themselves. Any book at all was theirs to explore. Brose did not work on assignments on the weekend. Brose took time to tidy his studio on Saturday, to sweep the floors, round up rags to wash clean in one of the metal tubs, sort his supplies, clean tubes of paint of grease or errant blots of paint and consider what he needed to replenish. The work was lightened by the enthusiastic assistance of his little cats who joined in with a spirit of camaraderie as they had a stake in the good upkeep of the place. He brought their sheets and clothes to the laundrette on Saturday morning and helped shampoo their hair at the slop sink on Saturday night. Sundays were a day of rest. Sometimes this meant they were sunk in their own reading all together in good fellowship. He coaxed them into entertaining themselves with water paints, or velvety smooth dark pencils that spread across the page with ease and a bold dark line. Brose suggested that sometimes just playing with paint, drawing for its own sake was as satisfying as rendering images in a formal way. He counseled them that informal enjoyment strengthened one's coordination. The hand trained the eye and vice versa. Bit by bit Ross and Dem came to love sitting with paper and pencils and paint, talking of this and that or quiet together in a contented companionship filling the blank spaces with flights of fancy and timid attempts at drawing "properly" Brose praised their efforts and they were pleased with their results too. In the evening they sat all together on the sofa and Brose conducted a sort of salon, talking about art and ideas and letting Ross and Dem have a window into the world of the mind that led them through previous centuries in books or the modernity of some of the recent magazines that talked of the latest contributions to the art world. At night Brose tidied the plates, glasses and cutlery in a plastic dish pan set in the slop sink as Ross and Dem bathed behind a screen and dressed for bed in jeans and old shirts of Brose's. The dishes settled, the children brushed their teeth and wished Brose good night. He bid them good night and wished them pleasant dreams. It was not a idle phrase. The first night they arrived he stayed with them, laying on the sofa instead of going home. They both seemed to dream distressing things and murmur in fear in the night.

Having portioned the log of marzipan into three pieces, Brose gave the children their milk and brought his coffee to the table. With a the flourish of a magician Brose unfolded the paper to unveil the exquisite cadaver. Ross and Dem had a hearty laugh. It was an exciting sort of monster. A frilled headed bird wearing a regal crown full of gems and fine metalwork, a middle that looked like a bridge. This animal had a hole in its tummy that allowed cars to drive in and out of it with arms at its side like lion's paws. Ross, having surmised correctly that his contribution would be the creature's feet, had drawn his old school shoes on stick like legs like a stork and standing next to a cat quite like Mimi. They were all very pleased with the result. They finished their marzipan and drank up their milk, his coffee. They helped wipe the table clean. They prepared for bed. Brose sat with Mimi and seemed to converse in a Dutch the cat could understand. He put on his coat and readied to leave. The weather was turning. The petite chats would soon be indoors for the cold weather. Brose looked at the place. Warm enough. Clean. Certainly better than them running about on their own. He would look for a nice warm blanket, a few more towels. This studio was not meant to live in but he would make do. They would not suffer for it, being in an artist's garret...

"Good night!" said Ross and Dem as Mimi padded towards them in the darkened studio.

"Good night." said Ambrose. As he left he smiled for they could be heard giggling, "Exquisite cadaver!" in their bed as he shut and locked the door. 

*Ross and Dem never learned fluent French. Brose did speak in Dutch accented French.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hard Knock Life, from the musical Annie 1977
> 
> It's a hard-knock life for us  
> It's a hard-knock life for us
> 
> 'Stead of treated
> 
> We get tricked
> 
> 'Stead of kisses
> 
> We get kicked
> 
> It's the hard-knock life
> 
> Don't it feel like the wind is always howl'n?  
> Don't it seem like there's never any light!  
> Once a day, don't you wanna throw the towel in?  
> It's easier than puttin' up a fight
> 
> No one's there when your dreams at night get creepy  
> No one cares if you grow or if you shrink
> 
> Empty belly life  
> Rotten smelly life  
> Full of sorrow life  
> No tomorrow life
> 
> Santa Claus we never see  
> Santa Claus, what's that?  
> Who's he?
> 
> No one cares for you a smidge  
> When you're a foster kid
> 
> It's the hard-knock life
> 
> Make my bathroom shine  
> But don't touch my medicine cabinet
> 
> It's a hard-knock life for us  
> It's a hard-knock life for us
> 
> 'Stead of treated
> 
> We get tricked
> 
> 'Stead of kisses
> 
> We get kicked
> 
> It's the hard-knock life for us  
> It's the hard-knock life for us
> 
> No one cares for you a smidge  
> When you're a foster kid
> 
> It's the hard-knock life  
> It's the hard-knock life
> 
> Pour ton frère: for your brother


	4. The Bluebird of Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost and found

Not like Dante

discovering a commedia upon the slopes of heaven

I would paint a different kind of Paradiso

in which the people would be naked

as they always are in scenes like that

because it is supposed to be a painting of their souls

but there would be no anxious angels telling them

how heaven is the perfect picture of

a monarchy

and there would be no fires burning

in the hellish holes below in which I might have stepped

nor any altars in the sky except

fountains of imagination

In the warmth of the sun, in a quiet contentment, Ross and Dem sat on a pretty printed tapestry from the outdoor market in the town below them, laid upon the grass, in the meadow with Garrick farther down the hill chasing rabbits with enthusiasm. The grass dotted with flowers, tiny purple violets, floppy yellow buttercups and dandelions, white blooms of every sort, frothy like lace in puffs, standing at attention in small spiky clumps, winking like stars at their stalks. Green leaves of every size and shape in all the wonderful variety of nature mixed amongst the sweet smelling meadow. Ross and Dem sat in a necessary task. At certain intervals ones long hair had a mind of its own and rolled about on itself until it tangled. Dressed as each other's inverse, Ross shirtless in his jeans, Dem in one of Ross' shirts in just her knickers (proper girl's panties that Ross was charmed to see her in), Ross sat cross legged and read poems aloud as Dem knelt on her knees behind him, carefully combing tangles from Ross' dark hair. In the full light of the strong Italian sun a copper sheen could be seen in his hair when it so often just looked brown near to black. She worked over his head slowly and held locks between her fingers so as not to tug too hard at his scalp. He read with everything that was so wonderful about Ross' voice these days. The chirpy, bright youthfulness he had when they met had slowly shifted. Ross' voice became deeper, sonorous and more masculine. It still held his lightness, his feelings, his bright optimism, but it was deeper now. When he spoke to the clerk at the town hall the man did a double take, looking up from his papers, surprised that such a grown up English voice could stem forth from a scrapy looking kid without a hint of facial hair and the wild long hair of kids these days... Long hair that occasionally tangled. Some strands came away in the teeth of the comb. Dem tossed them aside in the grass and they both laughed to see a bird make off with it, swoop near and pick it up with its beak, fly off but not before turning its head this way and that, looking as if it sought permission to take it. The Poldarks giggled at the bird as it hopped a bit at the edge of the tapestry and flew off with a scraggled lock of Ross' hair. "I hope he finds it useful!" laughed Dem. And they switched places, Demelza sat, legs askew, one stretched forward, one bent near, the hem of Ross' linen shirt scant coverage as she gave her hair over to Ross' care and assistance. She fumbled about their paperback book of William Blake to find something nice.

Twas was on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean 

The children walking two & two in red & blue & green 

Grey-headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow,

Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow 

O what a multitude they seemd these flowers of London town 

Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own 

The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs 

Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands 

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song 

Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among 

Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor 

Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door 

As Ross combed Dem's hair, trying to be as gentle at her scalp as she had tended him, he sighed a sigh of gratitude. They would hire proper workmen to enclose the folly. The man at the town hall had called this funny little place a folly. The clerk had been dismissive of Dem not having heard to term before. That made Ross cross but the term folly charmed him. It suited, didn't it? Two street rats finding a proper home at last in the prettiest part of Europe he'd ever seen. Different to his beloved Cornwall that held his heart as home, different to the verdant fields and glittering waterways of Marseilles, different to the elegant Ringstrasse and florid architecture of Vienna in Austria, different to the grandeur of Paris. All these places charmed and held Ross' love but Positano was paradise. Truly. He had wed Sweetness and found an Eden in this valley that they could share and be together in their own house on their very own land. It was quite like the poem he read. Maybe reading it so often in Paris unlocked some magic for them like chanting a spell. Ross bought the copy from the bottom of the pile, the one he always reread in Shakespeare & Co. It was the first thing he claimed when they bought books there. Ross never thought they would ever have cause to buy books like some of the spoiled, student boys. Boys who had money and wore sharp clothes; snickered at Ross and Dem, looked down at them for reading in the shop and being too poor to swan off to the counter with piles of books like they did. When he went to pay for their own purchases Ross felt like a golden crown had dropped from the sky right onto his head. He had money, thank you very much, and books to buy for himself and his wife! Maybe that magic rubbed off somehow brought them luck. They found this place looking for water. It was as if the river asked them forward to come and stay. Now that you've found it come stay in this wild canyon... They had a lease for five years and money enough to make a go of things here. They would have an extra room like their own parlor and sit of an evening in the cold winter. Two lovebirds in a bower. They'd sit by the stove and read poetry, and draw and make love in a bed. Ross decided they should have a proper bed. How they could get one up the cliff would take a bit of a think but he would lay his bride on a proper bed and feed Dem grapes like the old master paintings in some of Brose's books... "Are you finished, Ross?" asked Dem as he shook himself into the present. Ross had stilled over her hair, daydreaming. "Oh! No, Sweetness. I started thinking! We should have a bed, a small mattress would just fit at the wall..." Dem sat up a little more in a happy agreement. "Oh! Oh yes! We could set it at the wall. We could have a curtain! It would be a bit like a room." Dem giggled. "Then Tabitha Bethia and Garrick could have privacy!" Ross chortled. Sweetness was always clever with jokes like that. She told him they could have privacy by suggesting that they were extending that right to their cat and dog. Ross and Dem found little to be embarrassed about as they shared quarters with both animals. They did not seem to mind their ardor. Garrick and Tabitha Bethia did _stare_ sometimes though... Ross laughed and went back to combing Dem's hair. Strands that glistened like red gold were dutifully pulled free of the comb and might be of use to their feathered friends. Dem gave Ross a kiss as thanks and went off to gather bluebells. Garrick trotted to meet her and Ross lay back on the tapestry in the meadow, lying his head on his arm watching Sweetness and Garrick romp away, growing smaller as she sought flowers to brighten the house. Off in the distance. This was their land by right for five years and he could give his Sweetness a home all their own. He could almost cry from joy, his throat felt tight in his emotion over it all. She loved him and he loved her and they were safe in this beautiful place with a cat and a dog and each other...

Each other, a dog and a cat but no pencil sharpener. Where was the pencil sharpener? Ross and Dem were reduced to crawling about the floor to see if it fell behind the daybed or perhaps ricocheted under the stove. This was a calamity for they often needed to sharpen pencils, they drew frequently. Their's was particularly good. A metal cast one with a slim blade fitted in it and a clever indentation on both sides so one's fingers had a good grip on it when you used it. It was handsome too, shiny and good looking. It was as pretty as a jewel, even if it was just a pencil sharpener. Dem muttered to herself darkly that they should get a tin box or a dish or something. She vowed to find a home for their pencil sharpener to live when it was not in use and be in an agreed upon safe place until it was wanted. Ross giggled. Dem was still in only his shirt and her bottom in the air held an appeal in pink cotton knickers and quite shapely as she looked along the floor. "What?!" said Dem turning her head from straining to see if it might have fallen by the left wardrobe. They shared a smile of understanding with naughtiness in Ross' and mirth in Dem's. She could admit her position at this moment was provocative. "When we do find the sharpener, I expect you'll give it a talking to it won't forget!" smiled a circumspect Ross. Dem laughed, sitting up. "Well," she said with a shade of mischief in acknowledging and NOT acknowledging Ross' suggestive giggle, "I was getting somewhere with that picture! If we wear down every pencil in the tin there'll be no sharp ones left!" Ross sat up on his knees. "It not too late to go to town," still drunk with the novelty of being able to buy things on a whim. "I don't think we'd find one as fancy but a couple of cheap sharpeners will see us through until we turn up the good one." Dem grinned. It was fun to go into town. The shop keepers were leery of them but never truly rude. The markets were a riot of color and wares of every description. "Yay!" said Dem, "We can find a tin or a box too, then we'll never lose it because we'll always know where it lives!" Ross stood to get a shirt, pushed his hair out of his eye. "We'll get a bit in for supper too! And some more water!" They boiled river water to drink but often bought slim bottles of mineral water like Brose used to. He would buy them mineral water in a green glass bottle and beer for himself in a brown glass bottle. The bottles of water here were often clear or tinged pale blue. It was an elegant flourish to their meals and the candlelight made the bottles gleam and throw shadows like a lantern upon their wooden table. Dem put on jeans and Ross stuffed a modest amount of funds in his jeans pocket from their largesse in the guitar case. They put on their ratty canvas shoes and went on their way, out of the open side of the folly. Garrick and Tabitha Bethia watched this hunt and leave taking with interest. It was a baffler. The humans did not often hunt for prey. That was new. The humans had a flat sort mating ritual not unlike earthworms. They sat upright too, now and again, though that was just as peculiar. Both Tabitha Bethia and Garrick were confused to see the female just about manage a proper mating stance and position quite like a dog or cat in heat. The humans didn't seem to know what to do. They just stared at each other and gave up the attempt.

The Poldarks, (and wasn't it nice, thought Ross, thought Dem. Wasn't it nice to be "The Poldarks"), went into town. They scaled down the cliffs on paths of nature rather than man that were accessible. Some directions were dangerous indeed, cliffs with stark drops that were frightening were very near in some places. In daylight one could see how to go without true peril which is why they made their trips to town when there was still enough daylight to get back up to the folly safely. They walked the shoulder of the road, hand in hand, puttering along. The odd truck or car would pass and the shoot forward or back into the distance, carting livestock or goods form one place to another in the quiet commerce of an earlier time. When there were less vehicles of every description on the road and the sky not yet hazed with the soot and exhaust of modern progress. People driving livestock on foot were just as likely to be seen as cars or trucks. A boy on a horse looked at Ross and Dem with interest. ' _Oh, those must be the kids papa saw in town_ , thought the boy, ' _they don't look dangerous to me!_ ' Ross and Dem smiled at the boy who stared but seemed curious rather than rude. ' _Oh, maybe we should have a horse_ ', thought Ross, ' _There's enough ground for grazing... We could use rope around some of the trees, pen a side in so it could graze and roam safe and not go over a cliff_...' In town, they walked past the fish sellers and fruit sellers and the purveyors of household goods with their wooden stalls, tables and cheerful patter. Ross and Dem did not speak Italian but it was clear to them that they were hearing the announcement of the most wonderful fresh caught fish, the most marvelous fruits and vegetables, the best wares to be had all here, come see, come see! Ross scanned ahead as Dem pointed forward to what had to be a stationary store. The modest window display showed hard bound ledgers for bookkeeping and exercise books for students, pen sets that would look grand on one's desk. Notes and correspondence paper in handsome boxes for elegant letters and letter openers with fanciful handles; an ionic column, a caryatid, holding up the knife blade in a glamorous stoicism. And, like an afterthought, a smattering of office supplies some of which being pencil sharpeners. They entered and the man at the counter nodded, happily. The Poldarks were cheered by this. They often met with suspicion from the shopkeepers here about. With the authority of being a boy for many years now, Dem gestured to the man at the various pencil sharpeners and the man went to retrieve a tray of various sharpeners. None of them meant for an artist's use, more for school students but they would do. Ross and Dem grinned over one that looked like a flower, a lion, a pencil in which you sharpened your real one by sticking it in the "eraser". There were rectangular ones like theirs that had gone missing but the bodies were plastic, not metal. They would do. Dem choose one shaped like a flower. Ross chose a blue sharpener, rectangular and as glossy and transparent as a sapphire. He paid for their purchase and the man placed them in a small paper bag, pale tan and flat like a handkerchief, one side shorter than the other as an opening, the shorter side with a frilled cut edge like little teeth on a sawblade's edge. They thanked the man and left the shop. Ross opened the door for his wife, a nicety they both enjoyed as they blinked an admiration in each other's eyes as she exited the shop, and he nodded his leave to the shopkeeper who watched them go as the bell jangled itself silent in their departure. He pondered the strange kids, so poetic and gentle looking. Talk was about that there were two foreign kids, the vagrant sort, skulking about the town. They were, most likely, not them. The other shopkeepers spoke of the foreign kids as the sketchy type like you read about in the papers, petty thieves, shifty. Who would fear two poets like them? They must be writers or they wouldn't need pencil sharpeners. They must be poets, both lads had long hair...

Ross and Dem went through the outdoor market and made their way home bearing two bottles of mineral water, two plastic pencil sharpeners, apples, oranges, onions and parsley. They bought three fresh sardines as a treat for Tabitha Bethia, two small fish for them to eat for dinner, a bone for Garrick with a good bit of meat still clinging on it wrapped in brown paper from the butcher. Dem added a barrette with eight purple diamantes and would be very pretty in her red hair from a lady who minded a small mismatch of costume jewellery on a wooden tray in her lap, sitting in the market offering a dash of glamour for modest prices. Dem bought a skirt too. They had been meaning to buy more clothes. It was a long brown skirt and her first feminine hair ornament. Both Ross and Dem looked forward to seeing her wear them. Ross bought a hand mirror with a hole in the handle so it could be hung. Dem could use it see to place her new barrette in her hair as she wanted. He also bought a plain tin box, hinged, a bit bigger than a pack of playing cards. Wide enough and tall enough to hold all three sharpeners when their missing one turned up.

It was a mystery. The next day, the tin lay open, holding the new sharpener on one of the wooden shelves by the tin of pencils. Only one. The tin sat open as they had left it, had not been moved but the blue plastic sharpener was missing. The yellow one shaped like a flower and the barrette Dem bought at the market were still there. Dem did not think Tabitha Bethia could swat at the tin, bop the sharpener out without knocking it and the tin of pencils to the floor all together. Ross was at a loss. They came back from hauling water, Ross taking time to admire Dem as she brought her bucket up the hill in her new skirt and a tee shirt of her own, without having used either of the new sharpeners. Both pencil sharpeners had been side by side in the tin this morning. They stared at the tin box in consternation. Ross sat on the floor at their wooden table and held his chin in his hand. Dem dipped out water to boil for tea. Pondering such a strange mystery demanded tea. Ross drummed his fingers on the table with frown as Dem filled the kettle and Garrick began to bark at the open side of the folly. A bird sailed through the gap where the sheet hung as a makeshift closure at the wall. They turned to look at Garrick in time to see a bird fly past them both, land on the shelf and make off with Dem's rhinestone barrette! It picked it up in its beak and looked at them both before it flew back out! Ross and Dem, in open mouthed disbelief, were up from the table and clattered down the kettle in a blink rushing out of the mouth of the folly to see the bird arc in the sky twinkling Dem's purple diamante barrette in its beak, a bright flash in the sun. "There!" pointed Dem. It went into the trees. Ross and Dem ran after it at the edge of the wood. So used to working in the fields of Marseilles their bare feet caused them no hardship. They looked among the trees, the song of hundreds of birds serenading them. The Poldarks were outnumbered. Could they find the bird who took the barrette? "There it is!" cried Ross pointing ahead at the upper branches of a nearby tree. The cover of the branches shaded direct sunlight but the diamantes still sparkled in its mouth. Dem trotted forward pulling the side of her skirt up, tucking the hem at the waistband to free her legs. Ross struggled to keep sight of the bird should it fly somewhere else for Dem with her skirt hitched up high enough to bare her legs was a sight to see indeed. She climbed up the tree, and heard Ross gasp as the bird dropped the barrette and flew away. It fell to the ground and Ross rushed to where he saw it fall to find it in the bracken of the woodland floor as Dem continued to climb. "I got it!" said Ross looking up at Dem, on his knees in the grass holding it up with a smile of triumph. "Dem smiled down with as much satisfaction. "Ross! Come up and see this!" Ross put the barrette in the pocket of his jeans and climbed up the tree. With care he stood at the crux where the branch met the tree and laughed out loud. Dem grinned up at him. The magpie lived in a nest of wonders. A piece of melted candy, stuck to its shiny cellophane wrapper, a plastic ring meant as a dress up play for a child, its false gold band cut in two sides to fit one's finger by squeezing it tight and a plastic gem with facets like a real one. A metal paper clip, a strand of Christmas tree tinsel and the two pencil sharpeners that had gone missing, glittering in the sun. Woven in the side of the twigs and bits of grass in the sides of the nest were tangled strands of Ross and Dem's hair, shining gold and copper this high up in the branch of the tree in the bright sunlight.

Ross and Dem had a hearty laugh. They plucked the two sharpeners from the nest and climbed back down. They washed the sharpeners clean and restored them to their proper home in the metal tin. "I guess we should see about getting the side closed up," laughed Dem. "Yes," said Ross. "We should ask about tomorrow. I shouldn't think it would be hard to get done. We'll go to the lumber yard. They might help us or know were to ask if they can't." They fed the hens. They did their chores. They played with Garrick and went their separate ways to conduct their toilet. They ate a nice meal of pasta and sauce, Dem still trying to replicate the food they enjoyed when they first arrived, getting closer. They bathed while it was still light. They settled themselves in the candlelight of the darkening evening. They had not bothered to dress. They insured the cleanliness of their feet and Ross left a rock at the hem of the sheet at the mouth of the folly so it wouldn't blow around, stay "closed". He turned to Dem who smiled slyly and arranged herself on the daybed as she had been looking about the floor for the pencil sharpener. The candlelight flickered a moving pattern of light and shadow upon her and Ross approached her in the readiness she had anticipated.

The candles, made to burn unattended in their thick glass holders, burned on. The night sounds of owls and the rustle of leaves was heard. Ross and Dem were fast asleep. Garrick curled up and settled. Tabitha Bethia turned round and settled. They looked to each other in a mute acknowledgement that the day was done. Time for bed, they might have said. There was a language barrier between them. Garrick could not speak like a cat. Tabitha Bethia would not deign to speak like a dog even if she had the capacity but they did have a sense of understanding. Neither of them could speak like a human. They could not tell the humans a bird was pilfering their home, Garrick managed to draw their attention though, barking. Humans did have intelligence. It was just a different sort. It took them a bit of time for their friends to work out how to mate properly. They had a very dignified attempt this night. To a dog or a cat it would be quite second nature but having only two legs was a sticking point for humans it seemed. Pattering about on two legs all the time must be exhausting. No wonder they lay in bed wriggling like that. One suspected it was all they could manage. They had to work out how by degrees, had to consider things to figure it out, but they got there in the end. They were very sweet, the humans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bluebird of Happiness, Jan Peerce 1934
> 
> The beggar man and the mighty king are only diff’rent in name,  
> For they are treated just the same by fate.  
> Today a smile and tomorrow a tear,  
> We’re never sure what’s in store,  
> So learn your lesson before it is too late, so
> 
> Be like I, hold your head up high,  
> Till you find a bluebird of happiness.  
> You will find greater peace of mind  
> Knowing there’s a bluebird of happiness.  
> And when he sings to you,  
> Though you’re deep in blue,  
> You will see a ray of light creep through,  
> And so remember this, life is no abyss,  
> Somewhere there’s a bluebird of happiness.
> 
> [Recit.]The poet with his pen, the peasant with his plow,  
> It makes no difference who you are.  
> It’s all the same somehow.  
> The king upon his throne, the jester at his feet,  
> The artist, the actress, the man on the street,  
> It’s a life of smiles, and a life of tears,  
> It’s a life of hopes, and a life of fears.  
> A blinding torrent of rain, and a brilliant burst of sun,  
> A biting, tearing pain, and bubbling, sparkling fun.  
> And no matter what you have,  
> Don’t envy those you meet,  
> It’s all the same, it’s in the game,  
> The bitter and the sweet.  
> And if things don’t look so cheerful,  
> Just show a little fight,  
> For every bit of darkness,  
> There’s a little bit of light.  
> For every bit of hatred,  
> There’s a little bit of love.  
> For every cloudy morning, there’s a midnight moon above.
> 
> So don’t you forget,  
> You must search ‘til you find the bluebird.  
> You will find peace and contentment forever  
> If you will—
> 
> Be like I, hold your head up high,  
> ‘Til you see a ray of light and cheer.  
> And so remember this, life is no abyss,  
> Somewhere there’s a bluebird of happiness.
> 
> #13, From Coney Island of the Mind, Lawrence Ferlinghetti 1958
> 
> Holy Thursday, from Songs of Innocence, William Blake 1789  
> (Book Ross and Demelza would have been 29 and 19)
> 
> The poem describes the annual Holy Thursday (Ascension Day) service in St Paul’s Cathedral for the poor children of the London charity schools. The children enter the cathedral in strict order ‘walking two and two’ behind the beadles (wardens). The children sit and sing, and their voices rise up to heaven far above their aged guardians. The poem ends with a moral: have pity on those less fortunate than yourself, as they include angelic boys and girls like those described here. -from The Tate Museum
> 
> Dem, in Buskers, was an inmate of a Magdalene Laundry having been sent to "the Home" an institution for girls to spare her Tom Carne's abuse. The end is reminiscent of "Be not inhospitable to strangers, lest they be angels in disguise." motto of the Parisian English language bookstore Shakespeare And Company where Ross and Dem purchased the books of poetry and art they enjoy in their Positano folly in an exciting shopping spree. The happiness of having money enough to buy books for pleasure after being loiterers in the shop for years. Ross and Dem took joy in the ability to be "proper" customers and giving back to the shop who never kicked them out and gave them leave to read and dream even as they routinely browsed, never buying anything in their tatty street rat clothes and grubby plimsolls.
> 
> the one he always reread in Shakespeare & Co: Ross *thinks* that ampersand and abbreviation when he thinks of the bookstore not the full name.
> 
> caryatid: a stone carving of a draped female figure, used as a pillar


	5. Bella Notte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spaghetti dinner

_In town, Ross and Dem often bought their provisions in a little grocery just beyond the last stall of the outdoor market. When Dem had purchased enough clothes to dress as a girl on a regular basis the shopkeeper was startled to see the ruffian who accompanied the dark haired vagrant he'd often seen about transform into a startlingly pretty young lady and found an entertainment in watching the couple shop. They seemed to putter about looking at his wares, scrutinized with care for they could not read Italian. Looking for clues that they were buying the correct items.The pale green angel suggested baking powder as it balanced en pointe at the top of a sugar dusted cake. The happy woman preparing a hearty meal for her unseen family, in her apron and beatific smile showed which bag of flour was which. The blonde with her pasta, the brunette with her bread. The lady of mouse brown hair holding her cake aloft told of the flour's purpose. They would part to meander, look at things on their own and then spend time watching the other shop as if they could not believe their good fortune. That this dark haired lad looking at verdant, green bottles of olive oil could be her man. That this girl with a hair clip sparkling at her red hair as bright as her eyes surveying a packet of dried figs, pressed together in a circle like a secret, beige cloaked, cabal round a campfire, could be his woman. Then they would return to the other, meeting up like two birds on a tree, heads close to look at what they fancied. They had stars tattooed on their ring fingers like a pledge. That was strangely romantic. They winked at the eye as they pointed or held objects and when they payed for their choices. They were quiet in their movements and seemed to speak without talking at all. The boy would raise an eyebrow, the girl would nod agreement. The girl fluttered her wrist like a ballerina and the boy would retrieve what she had gestured to. They bought staple foods with the poetry of a prince and princess choosing magical tokens from a fairy's lair. They were fascinating to watch._

Ross and Dem were overjoyed to find a delicatessen in Truro with many imported goods from Italy they recognized from their time in Postiano. Dem carried high and did not waddle like an old duck quite yet, walking erect and animated scanning the shelves and wicker baskets of products and produce. Ross exclaimed to find the same cellophane wrapped blood oranges they'd enjoyed in Italy sitting dotted among a mass of unwrapped ones; the red printed wrappers marked with a clown in a carnival mask, the white, a fanciful scene one would want to walk through the wrapper and visit. A paradise of water fountains decorated with flowing haired maidens and mountains in the distance like the Poldarks' beloved valley and a plucky little swallow swooping across in a merry greeting. A third sort with a glamorous woman primly seated sideways on a Vespa scooter in her off the shoulder dress reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe and a repeat of oranges and lemons made ghostly in a strange halo of images off center, colours off center in a printing error. An register error that made the picture that much more interesting, a hyperreality in colours that were not real. Ross filled their basket with eight, taking happy care in only choosing wrapped ones. Dem added torrone, a slender package of almond candy and box of Ameretti biscuits, the pale, crisp cookies made with apricot kernels she came to enjoy at Lord Falmouth's villa. Mineral water was procured. Looking over the bottles of tomato sauce with care they chose the one that seemed to have the most visible evidence of basil leaves strewn through it and, with glee, secured a paper wrapped packet of spaghetti.

"Well ee should break un! They's too long! It'd be like tryin' t'eat shoelaces!"

Prudie was not well versed in Italian cuisine. Her suggestion, while duly noted was gently turned aside. "It IS a bit like trying to eat shoelaces!" laughed Dem, "but it works! You'll see. We learnt in Italy! You wind it round your fork!" Jud came to peer into the pot, the pasta just starting to bend in the boiling water, turning edible by degrees. It had been wrapped in glossy printed paper and kept the brace of it held firm as Dem pulled the end of it open and the stiff rods all slid into the stew pot, the largest pot of the Nampara kitchen. Now impressed upon by the boiling water and turning soft by degrees like a boat starting to take on water and sink. "Tha d'look like broom straws!" said Jud. "T'ain't right! It be droopin' in thur like it be meltin'!" Dem turned to smile at him as they viewed the bubbling pot. She blinked a cheerful encouragement to the older man. "You'll love it Jud! The taste is wonderful!" He eyed it warily. "I ain't learned 'bout them continental vittles! Don't look proper t'me! What be wrong wi' a good Cornish pie?" Ross entered having heard Jud's complaint. "Nothing at all Jud! But I'll not stand in the way of Dem's craving." Ross crinkled his eyes as he smiled. "The baby might want a taste of home!" Jud crossed his arms. "Yur missus be a British maid wi' a Cornish babby! Ee should be feedin' un starry gazy pie an' currant buns!" Ross and Dem laughed as Ross stood by her to give his missus and their friend a squeeze. Jud stepped back to give the lad room and he and Prudie admired the young couple standing at the stove. Dem with a proper bump beneath a light cotton dress embroidered in the Mexican style; blue and ringed with pretty flowers at the sleeves and around the neckline. Her hair was put up in a bun spiked in its place with a jaunty pencil and her face was a shade fuller making her as dear as a doll as she smiled near Ross' face. Ross in his perpetual garb of jeans and a tee shirt. He had been broken of his habit of prancing about half dressed with no shirt on like a bloomin' wrastler. Prudie, scandalized at Ross and Dem wandering about half dressed, "gadding about like them Tarzan films", put her foot down and demanded that the master of the house wear his shirts and lady of the house not putter about in naught but a blouse. She had brought the young couple into a greater daily formality than they often enjoyed in Positano and learned them to conduct themselves in a fitty manner. At this moment they looked as cute as could be, Master Ross with a happy smile at his wife's shoulder as they giggled over Jud's prescription. "There will be time enough for that, Jud. Time enough for that..." smiled Ross as he and Dem looked into to bubbling pot with anticipation. Ross lay the table with plates and cutlery and placed bottles of mineral water they'd bought in Truro along with the other Italian provisions and placed lit candles on the table like they used to at the folly. Dem and Ross were particularly goo goo eyed over this addition to their supper and Jud found it charming. He had not considered candles for ambience sake. They were useful when a power cut happened in emergencies. Prudie eyes glittered in the candlelight the soft flickering light made Jud's face seem a mite younger and reminded Prudie of the young man who courted her that many years back.

"It do smell nice!" said Prudie, surprised that it should be so. Jud could admit the scent of the spaghetti, in a steaming tangle, swathed in tomato sauce perfumed with basil on his plate did whet the appetite. The Paynter's were still a bit leery of just how to get the droopy long things into one's mouth without making a mess of one's self. To this end all four had napkins tucked beneath their chins; the Paynters in the anxious desire not to make a right mess of themselves, Dem because her bump was interfering with her capacity to lean forward at her plate and Ross in a sense of camaraderie and to make Jud and Prudie feel more at ease. As an authority on pasta eating Ross and Dem would demonstrate the technique of twirling one's fork. Jud looked askance at the bottles of water. "I ain't never thought I'd see the day when them grocers 'ad the cheek t'sell water in a bottle! Of all the foolish... Why'd ee pay good money fer _water_! Ee got a tap t'drink from!" said Jud looking at the mineral water disdainfully. Dem smiled a sunny grin. The candlelight flickered bright shadows through the water bottles, just like their meals at the folly. "When in Rome..." began Dem. Ross laughed. "Or Paris!" he chuckled. "Or Positano!" smiled Dem. Prudie looked between them. "We ought t'get one o them maps wi' the bitty flags ee stick in 'em! You lot be like Christopher Columbus!" Jud slapped his knee and they all had a right good laugh. Ross held his fork aloft, as if he were a magician proving he had no tricks up his sleeve and placed it upright in a tangle of spaghetti. Jud and Prudie watched carefully as Ross twirled the fork's handle and were struck with wonder that a perfectly sensible bite of the impossibly long spaghetti was wound round Ross' fork as pretty as you please, lifted neatly up for all to see. Dem smiled. "See! It behaves itself!" crowed Ross. At this the Paynters gave it a go. Timid, a bit of flopping, but a tidy bite of spaghetti was secured by both of them. It glistened with sauce and did smell quite tasty. Ross and Dem awaited Jud and Prudie's first taste of spaghetti with baited breath, looking encouraged and almost excited that Ross' dyed in the wool Cornish servants try their Italian dinner. Jud lifted his fork and waited for his wife. They would try this newfangled food together in the soft flickering candlelight that brought a shadow of their younger selves to each other somehow. The maid who made all the fellows wish she'd look their way and the lad who's smile was jaunty and confident that he would be the boy who dared to ask her out to the pictures. Old now, but that young lad and that young maid were still there, inside, in the candlelight. They smiled agreement, in for a penny... They ate their fork full of pasta. Ross and Dem tucked into theirs awaiting the Paynters' verdict. Was it too foreign for their older friends? "Oh!" said Prudie. "Tha do 'ave fine flavor!" She looked to her husband to see if he agreed. Jud chewed in a thoughtful way. "Aye, tha's good vittles... Different! But a good'un..." They looked surprised that it should be so but the Paynters did find spaghetti to be fitty. The Poldarks smiled their victory and they persuaded their friends to enjoy sliced bread toasted with butter melted upon it, flecks of bright green parsley and specks of proper garlic and the crisp freshness of the scandalous bottled mineral water.

It was a success. The Paynters enjoyed the meal and if the garlic bread was sharp enough to linger on the breath everyone else ate it too so there was no embarrassment in it. In a happy domesticity Prudie and Ross cleared the table of the plates and glasses, leaving the candles to give their light. Dem sat in a dreamy stupor of having had the food she most wanted with a satisfied hand resting on her bump and Jud, lothe to put on proper light when he might have ordinarily perused his newspaper as a digestive, not wanting to lose to ambiance of the candlelight, watched Prudie wash and Ross dry the dishes as the candles made a mystical confused replica of their movements on the ceiling and along the wall. Dem watched Jud watching Prudie. Admiring his wife. 'We shall be old one day,' thought Dem. 'I hope Ross still looks at me like that when we're old...' Jud was still smitten with his wife. They had not managed children but it was not such a hardship when they had a settled position within the Poldark home. The Mistress d'pass away an' young Master Claude. Joshua were a handful as a widower. Ross had been a tearaway, running about with them rascal Vigus boys. It had been a household shot with misfortune in truth. But Ross had come home and shed his wild ways, found a good maid to wed. Made good friends of people who chose to help them and their animals come home from their roaming ways. And proper titled personages an' all! Lord Falmouth's nephew ate Prudie's pie right in this kitchen, an' no airs on 'im! It was a pleasant night to watch Ross' wife sated with her continental supper, their babby set in 'er an' cute as a bug's ear. It was pleasant to watch Prudie washing up with young Master Ross talking of Italy. Talking of the other places in this wide world. He and Prudie weren't the traveling sort and that was not a hardship. Jud was pleased that Ross and his wife had seen a bit of the world and glad they were now in his beloved Cornwall. The place where he was born, where he would meet his reward, when the time came and the place he loved best for he ever had his Prudie by his side.

‘My sweetheart, come along! Don’t you hear the fond song, The sweet notes of the nightingale flow? Don’t you hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below?So be not afraid To walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below, Nor yet in those valleys below.

‘Pretty Prudence, don’t fail, For I’ll carry your pail, Safe home to your cot as we go; You shall hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below.’ But she was afraid To walk in the shade, To walk in those valleys below, To walk in those valleys below.

‘Pray let me alone, I have hands of my own; Along with you I will not go, To hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below; For I am afraid To walk in the shade, To walk in those valleys below, To walk in those valleys below.’

‘Pray sit yourself down With me on the ground, On this bank where sweet primroses grow; You shall hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below; So be not afraid To walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below, Nor yet in those valleys below.’

This couple agreed; They were married with speed, And soon to the church they did go. She was no more afraid For to walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below: Nor to hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sung in those valleys below, As she sung in those valleys below.

Jud sang, in the candlelit kitchen as Prudie and Ross finished the dishes. Ross watched Prudie smile over her chore as Jud sang her given name within the old Cornish tune. Ross and Dem were too young to recognize the lyrics for what they were for all they were fond of poetry. Jud was teasing Prudie as any young man of their generation might. The girl was not being asked to listen to the nightingale's birdsong, the young man was asking to be her lover. Jud and Prudie had been those young lovers, retained the feelings of those two younger people but better somehow for the years had given their love a strength that brought them happiness to think upon. Ross dried the dish in his hand, charmed at Prudie's smile. A knowing smile that held a love for Jud made that much stronger by time. Ross smiled. He hoped Dem could smile so, when Dem sat pretty as a picture with a happy passel of children round her knees blinking up at her as Mama and him as Papa and later when they were quite old. Ross hoped Dem could still look as smitten at him as Prudie looked now, happy to be Jud's wife.

Ross caused a bit of mirth struggling to open the box of torrone. They flung out at the table like champagne flying free of its cork and skittered individually wrapped candies on the table like confetti at a party. The Paynters having taken the plunge to try spaghetti and garlic bread were less nervous to try the odd looking sweets with their tea. The brittle, rounded biscuits faced in pairs, two halves of a tiny globe, wrapped in their pastel, printed tissue paper, ends twisted in tufts like bon bons and a soft almond nougat, each cloaked in a grand little rectangular box of its own with portraits of lords and ladies printed upon them like a fairy story. The strange smoothness to the touch. The candies were poured on a wafer, smooth as window glass once it set, chalky white and sweet with sugared nougat studded with chunks of almond for hint of crunch. They littered the table with the easy scatter of a children's feast and they drank their tea and ate their sweets and admired one another in the candlelight. They had reached a balance this night. Ross and Dem were older, Jud and Prudie were younger and sitting in quiet companionship. Not master and servant, not age and beauty. They were men and women with no inequality between them for they were lovers and that love was evident, among them all. The Paynters in the shadow of their younger selves and the Poldarks at the start of things but dwelling in a second sight that they should grow older year by year in the security of their love.

A good meal in happy companionship. A cup of tea and a bite of something sweet. Having enjoyed both Ross offered the final refreshment of a blood orange to end the night. They all found amusement in unwrapping them like party favors. "My blessed Parliament! Will ee look at tha, Jud Paynter! It be red as the devil inside!" Jud's eyebrows raised to see hers, broken apart in her hands, then pulled apart his own. "Well I'll be!" said Jud looking at them all around the table with a sense of wonder. "I ain't never seen a red orange! An' these was in Truro?" asked Jud. Ross nodded, happily. The Paynters ate their blood oranges and were impressed at how they were like oranges dressed up for best in their vivid crimson, in their richer taste. The perfect end to the meal. A meal so nice one didn't mind a touch of garlic on one's breath or a faint scent of citrus lingering on ones fingertips. Nampara's kitchen had transformed itself into a candlelit cavern of wonders and a pleasant, beautiful night. The Paynters took their leave and the Poldarks watched them go from the window, Prudie on Jud's arm and a sweet peck of a kiss between them as he opened the car door for his wife and she thanked her husband for his chivalry. Ross put an arm around Dem. "I should hope to still be in love like that when we are old..." sighed Ross. Dem smiled. "I will if you will!" Ross laughed and kissed her nose. "It's a deal!" smiled Ross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bella Notte, or, Beautiful Night as sung by George Givot,1955
> 
> Oh this is the night  
> Its a beautiful night  
> And we call it Belle Notte  
> Look at the skies  
> They have stars in their eyes  
> On this lovely Belle Notte  
> Side by side  
> With your loved one  
> You'll find enchantment here  
> The night will weave its magic spell  
> When the one you love is near  
> Oh, this is the night  
> And the heavens are right  
> On this lovely Belle Notte  
> This is the night  
> Its a beautiful night  
> And we call it Belle Notte  
> Look at the skies  
> They have stars in their eyes  
> On this lovely Belle Notte  
> Side by side  
> With you're loved one  
> You'll find enchantment here  
> The night will weave its magic spell  
> When the one you love is near  
> Oh, this is the night  
> And the heavens are right  
> On this lovely Belle Notte
> 
> wrastler: wrestler
> 
> Sweet Nightingale: Inglis Gundry included it in his 1966 book Canow Kernow: Songs and Dances from Cornwall. The tune was collected by Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould from E. G. Stevens of St Ives, Cornwall. According to Gundry, Baring-Gould "tells us that 'a good many old men in Cornwall' gave him this song 'and always to the same air', which may explain why it is still so widespread.

**Author's Note:**

> The Open Road, From The Wind And The Willows, 1983
> 
> Mr. Toad: It’s a life of ease on the open road,  
> Mole: Rambling where you please on the open road.  
> Rat: Here today and there tomorrow, Wave goodbye to care and sorrow,  
> Mr. Toad: You can beg or steal or borrow  
> Rat and Mole: on, the open road.  
> Alfred the Horse: Huh! No one asked me how I feel about the open road!  
> Mr. Toad: You are free to roam on the open road,  
> Rat: Though you’re far from home on the open road.  
> Mole: Never mind the wind or weather,  
> Rat and Mole: Wandering the lanes together,  
> Mr. Toad: Through the hills and trees and heather,  
> Ratty and Mole: on the open road.


End file.
